per amica silentia lunae

or, across the ferny brae with the evil voodoo celt

The wind hisses in the leaves and reeds,And stillborn buds cling to bare branches.All is distant, while distance Itself deludes- the farther shore,Goldened by the remaining raysOf afternoon, is a painter's landscape.Even motion- hopping bird, small dogBustling before its owner, stark VOf winging geese- seems stagecraft,A trick of the waning light.